


Full Disclosure

by Anonymous



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Nonconsensual Touching, Past Child Abuse, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9345308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lex's idea of dirty talk is lacking a certain something.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Written for [this prompt](http://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=25299#cmt25299) on the DCEU kink meme: _Lex tries to talk dirty. It goes dark places. His partner is not entirely sure they're okay with where this is going._ In this case, to the "describing your own experiences of child abuse in sexually suggestive ways to make Clark Kent uncomfortable" place, so heads-up.)

"Imagine your father left you a watch. Maybe he did leave you a watch, I don't know, and while we're being frank I don't care. Imagine your father — he left you a watch."

Lex's hand is cold against his wrist, like a demonstration. 

"You're insane."

"Granted. Imagine your father left you a watch, and it works, it's a good watch, thick band, analog dial, good up to 300 meters under water, it's a pretty fucking sweet imaginary wristwatch. But it doesn't fit, and you take out links and you take out links but it's starting to grate on you because you don't even _wear_ a watch, because who does, and your father should have _known_ that. Nobody wears a fucking analog watch any more unless they're too cowardly to admit they just want an expensive bracelet. So you can put it in a box, or sell it on eBay, or throw it behind your bed and forget about it, but what you really want to do is smash that fucking watch." 

"And LexCorp is the watch."

"You're thinking so small."

Clark is short of breath and weaker than he has ever felt, weaker than after Zod forced his hand — his lungs are straining and the muscles of his chest are a cage. 

"Lex?" 

"You know, he used to turn me over his knee," Lex says, squirming heavily against Clark's lap, "Until I got too big, and he got too impatient. He'd get all pissed off and haul me up to that big hardwood desk and bend me over—" and Lex's mouth grazes his ear, only briefly, he speaks too quickly and too deftly to make that pinpoint touch appear calculated but it must be— "He made me keep count. His hands smelled like newspapers and he must've worn a belt every day of his life—" 

Lex's hands are crammed under the band of Clark's belt, are fumbling with the cheap metal clasp, they probe against the hard muscle that Clark the civilian dresses to hide.

"—because he always was generous about laying it on me. I bet you're wishing you could touch me now, Clark." 

Clark is touching him, if not necessarily in the way he wants — unwillingly, from beneath. He is strapped to an examination table — the way his dad must always have feared, somewhere at the bottom of his heart, only not quite like that. There's no panel of scientists behind the glass, or he'd know. The two of them are alone. 

"I made him do it — and it was _easy_ , if I didn't call him _sir_ or I didn't cooperate with my doctor, or if he heard I cried. He'd kick the shit out of me. But you're not human, are you, Clark. You don't know." 

The line of contact between their bodies is a zigzag. Lex keeps talking, drumming the backs of his fingernails against the surgical steel tabletop.

"You know I used to bang my head against the wall, it used to drive him crazy. He couldn't fucking stand it." His forehead knocks against Clark's, gestural. "Why don't you give me a real what-for, huh? I bet underneath that Boy Scout act you're just dying to beat me bloody, you could crush me to death with one hand—"

Clark could never, least of all now — in another place, without the strength bled out of him, he could fend him off a dozen different ways without harming him. He could _carry_ him right into Metropolis State Hospital if he had to. Lex has cracked, he's only fit for a hospital now, he needs help. That just makes this worse — Lex needs help. 

He wants Clark to say something. Clark doesn't know what to say.

"—and I was just a _kid_ , but I knew—"

Lex, a child, sick and hurt. Kids get hurt in every neighborhood, in every city and state, everywhere. It doesn't always make the papers. Sometimes Clark's not fast enough.

"—he'd kill me if he could, one day he'd hit too hard or pick me up and squeeze—" His hands are on Clark now, spasming on his throat, beneath his adam's apple. His hands are sweating; his voice is strained with fright or with arousal or both. "He wasn't a big man, but he'd do it. I was just a kid then, I thought he could do anything."

His grip releases; he shifts again to tend to some other part of him. Luthor's skin is cold and damp with sweat. The hollow of his hand brushes over Clark's knuckles, and reflexively his fingers spasm up into a solid fist.

The click reverberates like a gunshot — then another as a reinforced tumbler unlinks itself, metal churning against metal. He is unlocking his shackles. 

"I could feel his _fists_ on my body for days. Is that strange? Is that strange to say? You don't know what it's like to be hurt — feeling pain — but it sticks on you, you know? You don't forget it."

He's hard in his pants. Clark becomes aware of it, horribly aware with Lex's skinny hips snaking against him and horribly guilty.

It's not within his control. Something pumped into the air, something in his bonds. He didn't ask for this. Clark can't even turn his head. His freed arm is not yet responsive, he can only watch it move as if it belongs to someone else — for a moment he's caught in the horrible suspicion that it _is_ foreign to him now, that Lex has done something to make his own body betray him. 

Lex's mouth grazes across his cheek. His sharp small teeth digging into Clark's lip, the foreign sensation of a mountain-ridge of prickling pain — Clark's shirt has come untucked,the sound of his own _(inhuman)_ heart beating is a cavernous thud in a quiet room.

Clark raises his hand — still stiff and alien to him, bled dry of dexterity. He can will it to move, he can will each individual finger to crook and bend, but he's too aghast to strike him down. Lex is watching him move, curled up alongside him, still all busy hands and uncertain flashing eyes.

He could snap every bone in that body, but not without becoming the worst kind of bully in the process. To a child every adult is unimaginably strong.

"Are you gonna _punish_ me, Clark? Are you gonna teach me a lesson?" 

He wants nothing more than to clamp his hand over Lex's mouth and must resist the inescapable compulsion to rut against him, as much as his bonds will permit — if this is what Lex wants and what will make it stop, he'll give it to him, he won't hurt him but he has to do _something_. That's wrong, that's fundamentally wrong. 

"Stop." Clark makes a fist in his hair. "Stop telling me this." 

"Nobody saved me, Clark. What power on earth can square off against what a red-blooded American citizen does in the privacy of his own home? There wasn't one — nobody cared, and they ran away—" 

He flicks the backs of his fingers against Clark's naked stomach, just beside the trail of hair beneath his navel. There's a small but perceptible thud, like knocking on a wooden tabletop. 

"What he did to you wasn't right. You don't have to live with this."

Lex's head twists back on his neck, an unnatural angle, a sick arch exposing his slim throat like a pillar.

"All gods want blood sacrifices. It's just a fact of life. You know. You can't have the perfect, shining city on a hill without cracking a couple eggs. You buy this stuff and that's what it costs."

A mad echo in a white room. "Why are you telling me this?" 

"Isn't that what you want to hear? That I'm some fucked up little thing who doesn't know the difference— doesn't know the difference between good and bad—" 

" _Why are you telling me this?_ "

For absolution. Because Clark was never there, because _no_ one was there — no teacher, tutor, secretary, doctor, priest, nobody who saw a boy hurting — 

Whose name is on the sign out front? Who built this place? Luthor breathing against his ear, a whole orchestra of shifting tones, Clark has never exactly known what other people hear but it's not this: "Because no one would ever believe you."


End file.
